


In the Name of (Im)Perfection

by BulimicSpacePug



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Angst, Bulimia, Depression, Eating Disorders, Mental Health Issues, OCD, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-13 00:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9097780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BulimicSpacePug/pseuds/BulimicSpacePug
Summary: Kid sets his rings down on the floor — gingerly, like he’s not sure if it’s clean enough despite having scrubbed it himself that morning. His knuckles look wrong without them, bare and red and horribly calloused, and he cringes a bit at the imperfection. Best to get it over with, he decides. If he can do this — if he can sacrifice this one small thing, just this one — then everything will be perfect.One small thing, he repeats. It’s one thing. One fault.Everything else will be perfect.





	

There’s an irony to what he’s about to do, and Kid knows it. 

The whole ordeal doesn’t last long; on a good night, he’s in and out in two minutes, and not a damn thing is disturbed when he emerges afterwards. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his shirt, not a drop of water on the bathroom vanity; nothing, save for the redness in his eyes and the hesitation in his usually confident footsteps, to raise any suspicion that something might be wrong.

Everything is perfect.

Kid doesn’t look at the mirror. He locks the door behind him — that’s not suspicious, he assures himself, doors lock for a reason — and crouches on the pristine tile floor. Already, his stomach is churning, his throat tight, his muscles tensed in anticipation. He sets his rings down on the floor — gingerly, like he’s not sure if it’s clean enough despite having scrubbed it himself that morning. His knuckles look wrong without them, bare and red and horribly calloused, and he cringes a bit at the imperfection. Best to get it over with, he decides. If he can do this — if he can sacrifice this one small thing, just this one — then everything will be perfect.

One small thing, he repeats. It’s one thing. One fault.

Everything else will be perfect.

The first time, Kid’s throat burned. It didn’t take much: his fingers grazed the back of his tongue, and he gagged and pulled away instinctively. He sat for what felt like years, catching his breath, trying to calm the unbearable butterflies in his gut. Then, steeling himself, he did it again. He gave up after the first heave, collapsing against the wall and staring down the unrecognizable remains of his dinner in the bowl of the toilet. It hadn’t been much; his stomach was still uncomfortably full when he pulled himself shakily to his feet. But it was something, which was more than nothing, and that in its own was an accomplishment. He was lightheaded, trembling, _proud_.

He was perfect.

It doesn’t hurt this time; he barely feels it. He’s got his fingers down his throat, just holding them there as he gags. It’s routine, automatic. He pulls his fingers away just as the bile rises, leaning hastily over the toilet. He’s vaguely aware that it’s disgusting, the whole vomiting thing, the saliva and bile and chewed up food all sitting there in front of him, the reek of acid and toilet water, but in the moment, he doesn’t care. It’s a familiar feeling, almost comforting, and he doesn’t hesitate to return his hand to his mouth.  
It’s a good day, as far as Kid is concerned. By the third heave, there’s nothing but water, clear save for the yellowish tint of stomach acid. He hadn’t eaten much beforehand — Patty’s cooking leaves plenty to be desired — and he’s torn between relief and disappointment as he stands and flushes the toilet.

Everything is perfect.

He looks his reflection in the eye, then, and of course the whole situation is anything but. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks puffy and streaked with tears; his hair is matted with sweat, and his lips are raw and bloody. He scoffs. The water’s already running, lest Liz or Patty hear him choking in the silence; he cups his hands beneath the faucet, watching through an almost drunken haze as they fill with the shimmering liquid. Then he splashes his face, gasping at the temperature. Water and mucus and bits of food run from his chin to the bottom of the sink, then disappear down the drain. He repeats the motion a second time, then a third, until the water runs clear — really clear, the way water should be, not tainted with blood and bile. Just like that, the evidence is gone, washed away forever. The sink is white, stainless.

Perfect.

He dries his face off on towel, burying his nose in the clean fabric and breathing in the flowery musk of laundry detergent. Then he starts on his hair, combing the loose raven strands with his fingers until it looks presentable. There’s his breath to deal with, then, but he’d crossed that bridge long before he got to it; he produces a mint from his pocket and, with a final glance at himself in the mirror, unlocks the bathroom door.

Everything is perfect, and no one knows otherwise.


End file.
